


Something Needed

by chainsaw_poet



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Platonic Romance, Rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 21:42:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chainsaw_poet/pseuds/chainsaw_poet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Bossuet enlists Courfeyrac to cheer up Joly, and Courfeyrac succeeds - with a little help from the Paris weather.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Needed

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt at the Les Miserables kink meme and originally posted here: http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11823.html?thread=4528943#t4528943

Courfeyrac was half-way through lunch at the Corinthe (a bowl of onion soup that seemed even worse that usual, if that were possible, and a glass of wine that was only marginally better) and more than half-way through a translation of a particularly salacious English novel about a schoolgirl seduced by a soldier, when Bossuet came up the spiral staircase that led to the restaurant, bearing both a battered suitcase and an unusually harassed expression.

“I’m so glad I’ve found you,” he sighed, dropping into the chair next to Courfeyrac, who closed his book and looked up attentively. “I am in dire need of your assistance.”

“You need somewhere to stay?” Courfeyrac asked, nodded towards the suitcase.

“No – that is, not right away,” Bossuet replied. “Combeferre’s agreed to put me up for a few nights. I impose on you too frequently as it is.”

“Not at all, especially as you’re so often with Joly these days. I really thought you had found a permanent nest there, L’Aigle.” Bossuet smiled warmly.

“I still rather hope I might have done,” he said. “It’s Joly that I need your assistance with, actually.”

“So much the better – why help only one friend when I can help two?” Courfeyrac raised his glass in a mock toast, and swallowed a gulp. “Matelote – a glass of wine for my friend! You must have a drink whilst you tell me all your troubles.”

“Telling all my troubles would take me a life time,” Bossuet said with a laugh, as Matelote deposited a glass in front of him with a loud clatter. “I’ll stick to the matter at hand. Joly has had a falling out with his mistress.”

“Another? I thought she was ignoring him?”

“Alas, quite the opposite, as of last night,” Bossuet replied. “Although her attentions were not of the sort that Joly would have desired. Grantaire persuaded us to accompany him to the Ermitage last night – he claims it has the best dancing in Paris – in return for buying the drinks. And there were a lot of drinks, which always makes Joly even more joyful than he is naturally, and entirely unaware of how handsome he is when he laughs. So dear Joly, who is always ready to be a smiling friend to the entire world, mistook the advances of several charming girls for innocent interest in his conversation. Which would have been fine, except that his sometime-mistress chose to enter the room at the precise moment at which one particularly forward jade tried her luck with a kiss. You can imagine the scene.”

“I need not imagine - I’ve experienced such scenes myself,” Courfeyrac said. “It is far more enjoyable to be a spectator than a participant.” Bossuet grinned.

“Indeed. Poor Joly - she did rather tear him to shreds. Then Joly made the mistake of trying to cajole her back to our – that is, to his rooms where they could finish arguing in peace. At which point she declared that they never got any peace in his rooms because– and I quote – his “clumsy bald friend” was always there. And then she left in a sulk. As a result, Joly is at home moping over his magnets, and I am sleeping on Combeferre’s spare mattress.”

“It sounds as though you have both had your wings bent out of shape,” Courfeyrac said sympathetically. “But surely Joly hasn't asked you to find alternative lodgings?” Bossuet shook his head.

“Quite the opposite – he made quite a show of declaring that he didn’t care what the girl said, that we were the best of friends, and that I wasn’t to go anywhere. I flew the coop of my own accord. They shall never make it up otherwise, and I think he does rather like this one.”

“Is this where I come in?” Courfeyrac said, with a knowing smile. “Do you want me to plead his case with her?”

“Not likely – you are far too charming an advocate for your own good, and I fear you may advance your own cause over his, however honourable your intentions. No, I shall visit her tomorrow, make profuse apologies for my lack of grace and lack of hair, and present the evidence of Joly’s undying devotion to her; I am qualified to act in matters of the heart, if not matters of the law.” Bossuet took a sip of his wine. “No, what I need you to do is cheer Joly up for me.” 

“I find it impossible to imagine our Jollly being anything less than perfectly cheerful. He was claiming to be at death’s door again last week, and still smiled all the way through Enjolras’s speeches.” Bossuet frowned and sighed.

“It’s a sorry state of affairs. He spent this morning diagnosing himself with a new malady every minute, and yet he did not seem in the least excited about any of them. I could not persuade him to come with me for lunch or for a walk, and had to leave him listlessly rearranging compasses. Any success I have with his mistress will be quite undone if she arrives back at his rooms to find him in such a temper.”

“She will not think him romantically wounded by her words, and thus utterly devoted to her?”

“I fear not. Whilst some men can brood Byronically, or win a girl over by looking as though they have not slept in a fortnight, such is their fixation on her beauty, I fear that Joly is not one of them.” Courfeyrac chuckled.

“Well, I should be glad to offer any assistance that I can for such a worthy cause,” he said, with a bright smile. Bossuet returned the expression, then drained his glass of wine and stood up.

“I must go. I have both a lecture and an invitation to play billiards with Bahorel. I plan to let fate decide which, if either, assignation I should keep. Let me know how you get on with Joly, won’t you? Poor chap, I think my bad luck must be rubbing off on him.” Courfeyrac waved farewell as Bossuet rushed out of the door, only to re-enter the room half a minute later to pick up the suitcase he had forgotten. Watching him leave for the second time, Courfeyrac made a wager with himself that Bossuet would not make his lecture and began to set his mind to the problem of how to raise Joly’s spirits.

The easiest option, of course, would be to recruit the help of Grantaire, and perhaps Bahorel, and then to drag Joly out of his rooms and to some café or other which prided itself on the liberal provision of both wine and women. Grantaire would have some idea of the best place; he always did. But such excursions only really worked when the party in question was quite ready to forget about their former love. Moreover, the application of drink was not always guaranteed to raise spirits, and frequently induced the opposite outcome when one was rather melancholy to begin with. No, it would take a more subtle restorative than wine to bring Joly back into his humours.

In keeping with Bossuet’s ability to attract misfortune, the rain that had been threatening all morning decided to start falling not five minutes after he had left the Corinthe. And it was no gentle drizzle either. Instead, the heavens seemed to open all at once; fat raindrops bounced from the pavement like the ball in _courte-paume_ , making an incredible amount of noise. It was as Courfeyrac was congratulating himself for, just this once, having placed common sense above style by picking up an umbrella that morning, when the idea struck him. Gulping down the last of his wine, he sprang up from his seat, snatching up the umbrella as he did so.

“Madame Hucheloup!” he called down the stairs. A few moments later there appeared on the staircase short, round old woman, in the process of tying a well-worn apron around her generous middle, wheezing as she waddled up the final few steps, leaning heaving on the banister.

“Monsieur Courfeyrac,” she gasped. “I trust lunch was all you expected?”

“And more,” Courfeyrac said deliberately. “But I have a favour to ask of you. Would you mind holding onto my umbrella until tomorrow morning?”

Madame Hucheloup was used to the whims of Parisian students, who seemed to get odder with every new intake that arrived each year with the autumn chill. Nevertheless, she looked hard at Courfeyrac, and then out of the window, through which the rain was leaking at an alarming rate, and then back to Courfeyrac.

“Surely, Monsieur will be in need of his umbrella?” she asked, asthmatically. “I believe that it is raining.”

“And Madame, I would not dare to doubt your word,” Courfeyrac said, with a gallant bow. “Nevertheless, I must implore you to retain my umbrella.” 

Madame Hucheloup gave an exasperated sigh. By her own estimation, she did not have many years left on this earth, and she was not going to spend that time attempting to understand the follies of students. She merely held out her arm for the umbrella. Courfeyrac placed it in her hand, then snatched up the other, gave it a quick kiss, and pressed a franc more than the price of the meal into its palm. Quite against her wishes, Madame Hucheloup found herself giggling like a school girl as Courfeyrac dashed towards the stairs, before suddenly halting and spinning around. 

“On second thoughts...” He removed his hat and his coat and forced them into Madame Hucheloup’s arms, receiving a yelp of surprise in return. 

“Monsieur, I really must…”

“I’ll be back for them tomorrow morning!” Courfeyrac shouted, as he hastened down the stairs. “I must dash – Paris weather, you know. One never can tell when it might stop raining!”

It did not, however, stop raining in the thirty minutes that it took Courfeyrac to walk briskly from Les Halles to Joly’s rooms in the Latin Quarter. Nor did the intensity of the downpour lessen. The result was that Joly’s landlady – whose expression when confronted by a caller entering from the storm without umbrella, hat or coat spoke of a similar attitude towards the activities of students to the benign bewilderment adopted by Madame Hucheloup - was forced to give ingress to a thoroughly soaked young man, who claimed, through chattering teeth, to know her fourth floor tenant. Accompanied by the details of the dire consequences that would follow if he dripped on the stair runners, Courfeyrac ascended to Joly’s rooms and knocked briskly on the door. 

Hearing a wearied groan and the shuffling of movement coming from behind the door, Courfeyrac realised that he was shivering quite violently and for the first time began to doubt the wisdom of his plan. Looking down at his hands, he saw that they were mottled a rather starling combination of red and white, the white in places being almost blue; he imaged the rest of his skin must be a similar colour. Pushing back his drenched curls from his forehead, he shoved his hands under his arms and hopped from one foot to the other, hoping that Joly would hurry up and open the door. 

After what seemed like an age, Joly finally arrived at the door, looking more pained and irritated than Courfeyrac had ever seen him. His hair was sticking up at an odd angle, as though he’d been running a hand through it for some hours, and his skin had the particular bruised, pale quality that came from being both hungover and underslept. Bossuet had been right to say that melancholy didn’t suit him, and Courfeyrac was suddenly impressed with the importance of his task. Not because of the girl; she was probably quite lovely, but girls came and went. No, it was because Joly was one whom Nature had intended to be happy always, and Courfeyrac was as committed as any of the Amis to restoring man to his natural state and freedoms, through whatever means necessary.

“If Bossuet sent you here...” Joly began tersely, and then blinked and looked at Courfeyrac again. “Good God, Courfeyrac – you’re soaking wet! Did you jump in the Seine on your way over? Come inside, before you freeze to death!”

“Bossuet didn’t send me here,” Courfeyrac stuttered thought shivers as Joly ushered him over the threshold, telling himself that it wasn’t quite a lie. “And of course I’m wet, it’s raining.”

“Weren’t you carrying an umbrella?” Joly closed the door behind him, as Courfeyrac dashed towards the fire that was dancing merrily in the grate.

“And ruin the effect of this perfectly stylish waistcoat?” Courfeyrac rubbed his hands together, vainly trying to get the feeling back into his fingers.

“Which is now perfectly ruined by the rain,” Joly observed. He took Courfeyrac’s hands in his own and began to massage them gently. “You’re not even wearing a hat!”

“Oh, you know I’m always losing those.” Seeing that a puddle of water was beginning to form at his feet, Courfeyrac stepped off the rug and onto the tiled hearth itself. 

“And whatever happened to your coat?” 

“My coat? I lent it to Enjolras earlier this morning. He was wandering around the law school in shirtsleeves, having left his own at home. He’s so occupied with the struggle that he quite forgets the practicalities of life.”

“Yes, quite unlike those who eschew umbrellas for reasons of fashion, or risk their own health for that of their friends,” Joly said. He rolled his eyes, but threw Courfeyrac a look of kindly indulgence, that made his eyes twinkle in a reassuringly familiar fashion. “You’re an idiot, Courfeyrac, and you will be suffering from a terrible chill in a few hours unless we get you out of those wet clothes immediately – and probably even if we do. Get undressed, and I’ll find you something to change into.”

Courfeyrac had managed to take off his boots, but was still struggling with the buttons of his waistcoat when Joly returned carrying several towels and a bundle of various garments, his frozen fingers refusing to do what was bidden of them. Smiling and shaking his head, Joly patted Courfeyrac’s hands away and began to unbutton it himself, muttering about the dreadful effects of cold on the body. Having made quick work of divesting Courfeyrac of his waistcoat, shirt and cravat, Joly passed Courfeyrac a large towel and a warm flannel shirt, and left him to see to his own trousers. Having draped the wet garments over the fireguard and added a thick dressing gown and some heavy woollen socks to Courfeyrac’s attire, Joly drew one of the large armchairs close to the fireplace and practically forced Courfeyrac into it. Taking up a smaller towel, Joly began to gently dry Courfeyrac’s hair. 

“I still don’t see how you managed to get quite so wet,” he chided kindly, as Courfeyrac leaned back into the comforting motion.

“I was looking in some book shops close by when it began to rain.” Courfeyrac had practised his story on the way over; the lies glided out like a skate blade over a frozen lake. “Knowing that I didn’t have my coat, I though I’d better go for the omnibus back to the Rue de la Verrerie before it got heavier. Of course, it did get heavier and I waited fifteen minutes without so much of a glimpse of an omnibus. I’d have caught a fiacre, but I didn’t have any money on me, and then I remembered that you lived close by and thought you’d be kind enough to let me dry off here. Thank you, by the way.” 

He glanced back up towards Joly, who returned the warm smile Courfeyrac gave him. It was just as Courfeyrac had planned; no melancholy could be strong enough to overcome Joly’s instinct to look after his friends. Fussing over Courfeyrac was simply a natural extension of his warnings about the dangers of miasmas in the back streets of Paris, or his gentle scoldings when they neglected to wear scarves or carry umbrellas. His expression was no longer so pinched or tired; he seemed to have half forgotten his troubles in the process of setting Courfeyrac right.

Joly paused in his motions and removed the towel, gently stroking a hand over Courfeyrac’s hair, making a small noise which now seemed to indicate that it had reached a satisfactory stage of dryness. 

“Don’t even mention it; it’s no trouble at all,” Joly said. “You, on the other hand, have been far too kind, as always. Giving Enjolras your coat when the sky has been as dark as pitch all morning – such a silly, lovely thing to do. It’s just the sort of thing you would do, Courfeyrac. You’re always taking care of the rest of us. Enjolras may be our leading light, and Combeferre our guide in things temporal – but we should all look to you in matters of friendship.” Joly continued to stroke Courfeyrac’s hair absent-mindedly, resting his other hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder. Courfeyrac reached up and held it, his thumb tracing soft circles over Joly’s palm.

“Says the man who has given me a seat by his fire and his warmest dressing gown,” he said. “And kept me from catching a chill as punishment for disregarding his sagacious advice about always carrying an umbrella.” 

“You’ll almost certainly catch a chill regardless,” Joly replied blithely. “But we might have saved you from influenza. As I said, it’s no trouble. In fact, I’m glad you’re here, and I’m sorry I was so horrid to you when you arrived. I thought I didn’t want company, but now I rather think that I do. Or your company, at least. It’s so very easy with you.”

“Is something the matter, Jollly?” Joly smiled at the nickname, and with a gentle tug, Courfeyrac drew Joly into the armchair. It was just large enough for both of them to sit comfortably in it, as long as Joly sat sideways, curling into Courfeyrac’s shoulder and folding his legs over Courfeyrac’s lap. Joly didn’t necessarily need to drape an arm over Courfeyrac, his fingers nestling amongst the curls that fell to Courfeyrac’s collar, but neither of them mentioned this. The Amis were often tactile with each other; play-fighting, linking arms as they strolled through the Luxembourg, laying heads on each other’s shoulders and in each other’s laps. Joly’s fondling of Courfeyrac’s hair, and Courfeyrac’s arm wrapped tightly around Joly’s waist were a natural extension of such behaviour.

Joly nestled more deeply into the soft lapels of the dressing gown, his nose brushing against the exposed skin at Courfeyrac’s neck. He sighed deeply. “Something and nothing,” he said. “It will sort itself out one way or the other.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Courfeyrac asked gently. Joly shook his head.

“Not now. Later, perhaps.” He sighed again. “It’s better, though, with you here.”

Courfeyrac reached up and brushed the mousy waves of Joly’s hair back from his forehead, and, without really thinking about it, placed a light kiss there. Joly twitched slightly, but then looked up and smiled, giving a startled laugh. It was, as Bossuet had said earlier, quite a disarming gesture, and suddenly the kiss to the forehead didn’t seem to be enough. Perhaps it was being so close to another body, or perhaps it was because his usual sense of boundaries had been thrown askance by onset of the fever that Joly had predicted. Courfeyrac certainly felt warm, and as though his heart was racing and skipping – but these were sensations that he did not usually associate with illness. Especially as they were accompanied by a strong urge to action, and Courfeyrac had never been particularly skilled in denying his urges.

There was nothing else for it; Courfeyrac simply had to kiss Joly. 

To his slight surprise, and his very great joy, Joly did not resist. On the contrary, he kissed back, returning Courfeyrac’s affections in equal measure. Joly’s lips were warm and pliant, and Courfeyrac could feel their corners of turn upwards as he pressed his own against them, softly at first and then with greater urgency. Courfeyrac parted his lips, nipping and teasing at Joly’s mouth to do the same. Joly let himself be kissed fully for a moment, before placing a hand against Courfeyrac’s chest and pulling back. 

“This isn’t…?” Joly began hesitantly. Courfeyrac shook his head.

“No, nothing like that,” he said, reassuringly. “Just – something needed?” Joly smiled again.

“Something needed,” he agreed, placing his hand against Courfeyrac’s cheek and kissing him once more.

The rain continued to fall outside, a soothing patter against the pane of the window of which Courfeyrac only really became aware once he and Joly allowed their bruised lips a moment of rest, sitting entangled in companionable silence.

“My clothes must be dry by now,” Courfeyrac murmured, burying the phrase in Joly’s hair.

“Mmmm – but you don’t have to go yet, do you?” Joly whispered. 

“Not if you don’t want me to?”

“I’d rather you stayed. And besides, it’s still raining and it’s warm here by the fire.”

“Well, that quite settles the matter.” Courfeyrac was just about to ask about the possibility of a cup of tea to shake the last of the dampness from his bones, when there was a loud rap at the door. Joly groaned and hid his eyes in Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “Do you have to answer that?”

“I really should. It’ll only be Bossuet, at any rate.” Joly leaned back over the arm of the chair and shouted, “Come in – the door’s open!”

But it wasn’t Bossuet who stepped through the door. It was Enjolras. He was carrying an umbrella, and was dressed quite appropriately for the weather in a hat, woollen scarf and a neat black coat which, as attested by its elegant fit, most certainly did not belong to Courfeyrac.

It was a testament to their leader that Enjolras did not seem at all disturbed by the sight of his two friends draped over one another in a single arm chair, both sporting tousled hair and stung lips. Perhaps his knowledge of human relations was so limited that he saw nothing amiss in the way in which Courfeyrac and Joly were entwined in one another, with Courfeyrac wearing a dressing gown that was far too short for him, whilst his clothes were draped over the fireguard. Or perhaps, Courfeyrac thought, Enjolras had more knowledge of the human condition than any of them gave him credit for, and so had reached much the same conclusion. Either way, Enjolras limited his response to the scene which greeted him to a polite, almost playful, raise of his eyebrows.

“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac called. “What are you doing here on such an awful day?”

“Looking for you, actually,” Enjolras said coolly. “I bumped into Bossuet whilst he was playing billiards with Bahorel. He said that I might find you here.”

“I thought you said you hadn’t seen Bossuet?” Joly’s gaze flickered between Courfeyrac’s face and Enjolras’s coat.

“No, I said that Bossuet didn’t send me here,” Courfeyrac corrected smoothly. “Is it something urgent, Enjolras, or can it wait until the meeting tonight?” Enjolras opened his mouth to reply, then shook his head and seemed to think better of it.

“It can wait,” he said. “I shall see you both at the meeting then?”

“Of course,” Joly replied. “Good afternoon, Enjolras.” Enjolras bowed his head and took his leave. Joly wriggled forward in the chair, so that he could look directly at Courfeyrac.

“Enjolras was wearing his own coat,” he said, eyes narrowing.

“It would certainly seem that way,” Courfeyrac said evenly, being careful to meet Joly’s gaze.

“And with a hat and umbrella, no less,” Joly continued. “Which means that your story about lending him your coat was a complete fabrication. Which means that you walked through the rain to my rooms without a coat, a hat or an umbrella – exposing both your health and your waistcoat to danger – because you knew that turning up looking as wet and miserable as a drowned rat would force me to help you, which in turn would be quite the thing to shake me out of my own self pity, yes?” Joly’s tone was severe, but his eyes were dancing. Courfeyrac decided that there was little point in denying it any further.

“Perhaps,” he ventured, giving a coy smile. 

Joly punched him lightly in the shoulder, still trying to fight back the smile that was on the verge of overpowering him.

“Courfeyrac, you’re even more of an idiot that I thought you were! I’ve never heard of such a stupid idea! Getting so horribly cold and wet - you shall probably have to spend the next two days in bed for your pains.” But, even as he spoke, Joly was losing his battle against his natural mirth and beginning to laugh. 

“But it worked, didn’t it?” Courfeyrac said, over Joly’s laughter.

“It worked perfectly,” Joly agreed, nestling back against Courfeyrac. “It was a wonderful plan, and no one else could have thought it up, because you’re such a wonderful friend and I absolutely don’t deserve you.”

“Not true,” Courfeyrac said, ruffling Joly’s hair.

“How shall I ever repay such kindness?” Joly looked up at him, with deep and beautiful gratitude in his dark eyes. “More kisses?”

“I never refuse a kiss,” Courfeyrac purred, tilting Joly’s chin upwards and kissing him full on the mouth. His lips lingered there for a few moments, before he pulled away. “But if I might be quite unreasonable and make another request first?”

“As today seems to be given over to the triumph of the Courfeyrac method over its rational and scientific counterpart, I am willing to abandon reason just this once,” Joly teased. “What is it that you desire?”

“A cup of tea?” Courfeyrac asked, in his most plaintive tones, adopting such a beseeching expression that Joly could not help but kiss him again.

“I think,” Joly said, placing a final kiss on the tip of Courfeyrac’s nose. “I think I can manage that.”


End file.
